


Solitaire

by codenamecynic



Series: It came from the tumblr-verse [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He cannot bring her back.  He will not say her name.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polkadotfoxx](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=polkadotfoxx).



> Thranduil thinking thoughts ostensibly about past battles and his departed wife, or - when Cynic tried to write LotR without knowing fuck all about what she was doing. Written for polkadotfoxx on tumblr.

An elven king does not dream but when he chooses to.

And yet –

Sunlight pours in through vaulted windows like molten dwarven gold, spattering the floor.  Here it is always light – his people do not embrace true darkness – but even in the gleaming that casts all but the deepest shadows white, he cannot shake the fear.

Memories, only.  He is old enough to know that.  Thoughts of a time long past, battles fought, won, lost. 

Lost.  A long march home with forces tattered like a flag ripped by the claws of a storm breeze, the pain of it, the  _shame_ of it, cuts across his face like the acid burn of dragon fire. 

It seems only yesterday.

Even still - if there is a memory hard to ignore, it is that of her sleeping face.   _Her_ , whose name he does not say lest its majesty be made common by repetition.  One may become numb to even the loveliest of notes; he is an elf, he knows this.  Their lives are long and their fripperies endless.  The world becomes tiresome.  They grow bored.  Even music loses its tenor and must be invented anew.

He cannot bring her back.  He will not say her name.

Her loss is his greatest failure, and kings do not speak of failure but to demand recompense.

And yet regret is for the weak, sentimentality for the dead, and if his pale skin glitters with the beads of sweat when he pulls himself from the depths of his bed, there is no one to tell the tale.

Thranduil, High Lord of Mirkwood, sleeps alone.

And walks alone.

And rules alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of a departure from my usual fandoms, but that's what happens when you have marathon watch-parties for The Hobbit. Come talk to me on tumblr :) http://codenamecynic.tumblr.com/


End file.
